


Dornröschenschlaf

by mendacium_dulce (lux_veritatis)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Author does not condone this type of relationship, Dark!Tom Riddle, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gradual Loss of Relation to Reality, M/M, Manipulative Tom Riddle, Minor Character Death, No character bashing, Psychological Manipulation, Riddle Murder, Sane Tom Riddle, Time-travel to the 1940s, Tomarry Big Bang 2019, Twisted Fairy Tales
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2020-10-14 01:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20592662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lux_veritatis/pseuds/mendacium_dulce
Summary: Harry Potter has never thought much of fairy tales, finding the magical happenings described in them rather dull compared to the actual magic he is capable of wielding. However, when he is suddenly stranded in the 1940s and meets a young Voldemort, who appears to have taken a liking to them from his childhood, he not only begins to question his stance on fairy tales, but also on Tom Marvolo Riddle himself.UPDATE with amazing title art by Mika (https://summerdiary.dreamwidth.org/) and a wonderfully chilling piece based on chapter one by the amazing Erin (https://acciotomarry.tumblr.com/)





	1. Kapitel 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dornröschenschlaf ('Little Briar Rose Sleep') is a German term describing a very long sleep. Dornröschen ('Little Briar Rose') is both the name of the German Sleeping Beauty fairy tale and of the Sleeping Beauty herself.

The new transfer student was a peculiar case, to say the least, and his arrival right at the end of the school year and his frigid demeanor gave birth to quite the number of rumors, one absurder than the other. Some would say he had been expelled from his previous school, that his offense was so grave that he had to leave his own country; others insisted that he had to be a celebrity in disguise.

Tom, on the other hand, knew that the boy's secret had to run far deeper than his schoolmates' vapid gossiping, for the very day he had been tasked to show him around and provide the guidance he required, there had already been discrepancies in his behavior. The boy, who, after a moment of hesitation, had introduced himself as Harry Evans, was oddly familiar with Hogwarts's workings and the castle itself despite his claims of never having been at Hogwarts before.

For instance, when Tom had been looking for him, so he could show him the way to the Dungeons, he had found Evans already waiting at the Common Room entrance, asking for the password with an annoyed scowl on his face. According to Avery and Malfoy, whom Tom had tasked to tail him whenever they could, Evans hadn't held in his tracks or taken a wrong turn a single time when he had headed to the Dungeons.

What confounded and irked Tom even more was Evans's apparent acquaintanceship with Dumbledore, how more often than not, he disappeared in Tom's most despised teacher's office after lunch or his afternoon classes, and he was so careful to not be tracked by anyone, which made his ventures to Dumbledore's office even more suspicious.

And then, there was his immediate and intense dislike of Tom. He hadn't even introduced himself when Evans had already glared at him with pure, unadulterated hatred and the subtlest hints of fear Evans appeared to be so desperate to conceal with even more hatred. Tom, however, was a predator, and once he could detect such subtle hints, he would latch onto them and, after uncovering their root and nourishing it, exploit them to his own benefit. He simply needed to find out just what it was about him that frightened Evans so.

_'He can't have possibly heard about the Chamber or that rotten orphanage, so what else could it be...?' _Tom mused, already planning to keep an even closer eye on Evans. There was always the possibility of Evans's secret being something completely minor, yet Tom wasn't one to give a hostage to fortune – especially when Dumbledore himself appeared to already be deeply involved.

But first, he needed to overcome Evans's immense hatred with the right amount of wit and pleasantries, and so, he headed him off right after Potions.

“Good afternoon, Harry.”

“What do you want, Riddle?” Evans asked, eying him suspiciously.

“It has come to my attention that Potions is your weakest subject. Hence I'd like to offer my help. You see, there are, shall we say, _insiders' tips_ for accomplishing better results. It'd be a pleasure to share them with you.”

For a moment, Evans seemed to consider his offer, but then, as though he had remembered something, his features hardened and he spat, “It'd be an even greater _pleasure_ if you kept your nose out of my business.”

“Very well,” Tom said, and his jaw tensed. “But it'd do you well to remember that bad grades are frowned upon in House Slytherin.”

“And I should care because-?”

“You should _care_ because the life of a misfit isn't pleasant here at Hogwarts.” There was a subtle threat in his tone, and he could see Evans flinch despite his visible efforts to maintain a neutral expression.

“Thanks for the warning, then,” Evans said, though his voice was dripping with sarcasm.

As he walked away, and Tom had confirmed no one looked in his direction, he shot a withering glare at Evans's back. How dare that brat challenge _his_ authority!

Their following interactions weren't any less disastrous. Whereas Tom attempted to be helpful and pleasant – partly because his mask demanded it, partly in order to learn his secret – Evans continued to be as insolent as humanly possible, and soon, Tom began to suspect he had made it his objective to form cracks in his mask.

It had to be Dumbledore's doing, for whenever Evans entered and exited the old fool's office, he appeared to have grown more knowledgeable about what irritated and angered him. However, mysterious circumstances aside, a pawn was just a pawn. If Dumbledore wanted to fight their little war by proxy, so could Tom. All he had to do was get a touch more creative in his approaches, and everything would fall into place.

Therefore, when Evans left Dumbledore's office the next time, Tom was already waiting for him in the hallway.

“Are you familiar with the term 'Little Red Riding Hood Syndrome'?”

“No, what's that supposed to mean?”

“It stems from a Muggle fairy tale told to instil fear of ill-intentioned strangers in children. Its protagonist is a girl who despite her mother's warnings-”

“I know that fairy tale. Just get to the point,” Evans rudely interrupted him, and Tom had to keep his eye from twitching.

“The _point_ is, Harry, that due to the wolf acting as the stereotypical villain in various pieces of folklore and fairy tales, the public's perception of the animal _itself_ has been clouded to the point of the wolf being feared almost _irrationally_. Regardless of facts about his true nature. Or his general harmlessness. In fact, there are no documented wolf attacks on humans.”

For a moment, Evans seemed to contemplate his words.

“That's... what are you expecting me to say now?”

“Nothing in particular. I do wonder, though, how Muggles and wizards' perception of wolves would have changed, had the hunter been the villain. And the fairy tale ended with the girl and the wolf resting next to one another peacefully.”

“So what's your point?”

“You ought to question what you hear about wolves, about the negative stereotypes attached to them.”

“About you.”

“Correct. Then again, I'm no wolf, am I?“ he said, flashing Evans his most dazzling smile, and he was pleased to see a soft tinge of pink color Evans's cheeks.

“We'll see about that,” Evans said, putting up a rather transparent ruse of stubbornness.

In the end, it was only a matter of time until he, too, would succumb to the wolf's – no, the _serpent's_ – charms.

***

Even Malfoy wasn't as aggravating as Tom Marvolo Riddle. Whereas Malfoy was arrogant and childish, Riddle's superiority appeared to be genuine. In every class, he was at the top, and more often than not, he could hold his ground in debates with their smartest of teachers. In fact, even Dumbledore had to concede he was downright brilliant, and Riddle appeared to have turned it into a personal challenge to do especially well in Dumbledore's classes, so Dumbledore had no choice but to praise him against his will.

Despite Harry knowing firsthand he was up to no good, there was yet to be a single instance in which his manners and behavior hadn't been impeccable. It was a fact that infuriated Harry to no ends. How dare his parents' murderer be perceived as a perfect model student! How dare he walk Hogwarts's halls and be admired by everyone but Dumbledore and him, when his hands were already stained with Myrtle Warren's blood! How could they all be blinded by his handsome face and his silver tongue?

The worst of it all was that Dumbledore had instructed him to at least try to be civil to Riddle on the surface.

“It won't do us any good, dear boy,” he had admonished Harry, “if we give free reign to our, ah, _wariness_ of him. Even among Slytherins, Tom has proven himself to be especially cunning. A single misstep on our part, and it'll be a child's play for him to paint us as a pair of evildoers.”

And then, there were his interactions with Riddle themselves. No matter how many times Harry slipped and snapped at him, his immaculate mask remained firmly locked in place, and every time, Harry walked away from him feeling as though he was in the wrong – he, whose parents had been murdered by the monster before him, he, who had been targeted by Voldemort from the age of one – and it was in times like that that he cursed his original Gryffindor sorting for making him feel bad for antagonizing someone just because he technically hadn't committed most of the atrocities Harry was blaming him for.

However, whenever the nagging thoughts of whether he was being nasty to someone innocent grew too persistent, all it took was the memory of Cedric's lifeless eyes, of Sirius's final smile for guilt and doubts to make way for righteous anger – anger that despite its blinding nature allowed him to regain his clarity and focus.

Technically innocent in some ways or not, Harry knew perfectly well what Voldemort's younger self was capable of, and so did Dumbledore. And if they were the only ones capable of seeing through his mask, then it was their duty to expose him as the monster he was before he could inflict any further harm, before he could completely turn into the monster they all feared.

Harry Potter mustn't waver – not when he had been ripped away from his friends when they needed him the most.

They had been fighting for their very lives in the Department of Mysteries from the moment the Harry's visions had turned out to be a vicious trap, and Sirius, who had promised they would be a family, had rushed to his aid, had protected him like a father would.

And then, everything had gone too fast. The very moment the curse had left Bellatrix's vile lips, Harry had made a leap for Sirius and shoved him aside, taking the full brunt of the curse himself and falling backwards – right through the shimmering, whispering Veil.

For a moment, there had been nothing but darkness – pitch-black and cold like a soothing balm – and his thoughts had become comfortably muddy. There was nothing left for him to worry about, not when he had prevented the death of yet another loved one, and he finally felt that after so many years of fighting for his life, for the lives of those he cared for, it was okay for him to simply close his eyes and rest. Harry couldn't tell was whether he was floating or falling, yet he couldn't bring himself to care.

For a moment, he simply reveled in the contentedness he'd deprived himself of ever since he could remember, reveled in the lightness of his shoulders and chest. At least, that was until a single voice sliced through the silence.

_'You do not belong.'_

Green, almond-shaped eyes so much like his own were glaring at him, devoid of any semblance of the kindness he’d known them for from photographs and descriptions. They were looking at him as though he was their enemy.

_'You do not belong_,' Lily Potter’s voice declared again, this time more coldly, more firmly. _'Leave this instant!'_

Suddenly, the entire place was rejecting him, tossing him about from all sides and it took him every ounce of willpower to maintain a firm hold on his corporeal form and his sense of self. It was then that his scar began to burn, white-hot pain spreading down his jugular, through his every vein, and Harry threw back his head and screamed.

And then, he saw Sirius's silhouette in the distance.

He hadn't been able to save him either.

His throat was raw and bloody by the time he finally blacked out; it was a final act of mercy for a boy who had had his modest final hope shattered right before his eyes.

The first thing he picked up on when he came to himself was the smell of freshly cut grass and the sun’s gentle caress upon his cheeks. He was slightly disoriented when he finally opened his eyes, but that had to be normal after he’d just woken from a nap close to the shore of the Black Lake with the castle right behind him.

What he hadn't known yet was that the Hogwarts he saw wasn't the one of his own time, that he was stranded in a different time, not knowing whether his friends had survived without him.


	2. Kapitel 2

Despite the permanent tension coursing through Harry's body, he was always looking forward to his Defense Against the Dark Arts classes, more than he had ever had in his own time.

Professor Merrythought, whose immaculate hair bun without fail reminded him of Professor McGonagall's, was a highly capable instructor, who had a natural talent for captivating the entire class's attention and holding it until the very last moment of the lesson and for making even the dullest theories sound interesting by combining them with practical examples and exercises.

“Alright, class. Today, you'll be honing your dueling skills again. As you all know, Grindelwald is on the loose. And even if it's unlikely, I want _none_ of you to act like a sitting duck if you run into his followers. No, I want you to _fight back_ and teach them why not even their master dares to launch an attack on Hogwarts.”

Her words were met with whistles and excited cheers, and for the briefest of moment, the corner of Merrythought's lips quirked up in a tiny, barely noticeable smile.

“Silence,” she demanded, and the clamor died down immediately. “You'll be practicing the Disarming Charm in pairs.”

The class groaned.  
  
“But Professor Merrythought!” a Gryffindor spoke up. “We've been practicing that for years now! Isn't it time for us to learn something new again?”  
  
“Nonsense. You're still far from mastering the Disarming Charm. Unless you can end nine of ten battles before they even begin, I don't want to hear a single complaint. It's your best chance to survive against a stronger opponent. And besides... by the time I'll fulfill your wishes and teach you something new next week, you'll be begging me for mercy.”  
  
Excited murmurs floated around the classroom.

“Now, what are you waiting for?” She clapped her hands – once, twice. “Go find yourselves a partner. Hurry up!”

As usual, there was quite the commotion as everyone hurried to pair with their closest friend, leaving a small group of loners and outcasts, who were eying each other instead of making a move to approach a potential partner. Harry, to no one's surprise, was among them. Wistfully looking in the direction of a blond Gryffindor boy whose name he couldn't yet remember, he all but flinched when the said Gryffindor's features darkened the very moment their eyes met, and he clearly conveyed that he had no intention whatsoever to work as a pair with a Slytherin like Harry.

He was just about to resign and wait for Professor Merrythought to assign him a partner when his ears picked up on a pair of approaching footsteps, confident and deliberate, that could only belong to a single person.

“Shall we?”

“You're on, Riddle.”

Obeying Professor Merrythought's instructions, pair after pair went to the front of the classroom and engaged in a little disarming contest to demonstrate their skills. Once a member of the pair had successfully disarmed the other, the rest of the class would critique both members' performance and give them tips before Professor Merrythought would give her final evaluation.

When it was Harry and Riddle's turn at last, Harry braced his shoulders before marching to the front of the classroom with determined steps. His heart was thundering in his chest; there was no way he would lose to Riddle when it came to his signature spell, yet he couldn't shake off the feeling that this particular duel wouldn't be as easy as the ones he'd engaged in before.

Like they had learned, they inclined their heads in a bow, Riddle more gracefully than Harry, and raised their wands in front of them.

“On the count of three!” Professor Merrythought announced. “One. Two. Three.”  
  
_“Ex-”_

_“Expelliarmus!”_

Harry could do nothing but stare when he was ripped off his feet and the air was knocked from his lungs upon the impact with the cold, hard classroom floor, and he coughed, wincing in pain.  
  
Riddle, on the other hand, just stood, tall and proud, before approaching Harry with slow, confident steps, and Harry's heart froze in his chest before starting to beat twice as rapidly. In this very moment, Harry was back in the Chamber of Secrets, paralyzed as venom spread through his veins, with the predator himself closing in on him, who was savoring every gasp of pain, every ragged breath, every second of his kill. Indeed, Harry had barely escaped death that day; was there any guarantee it would happen again?  
  
Frantically, his hand reached for a wand that wasn't there, and underneath his fingertips, the floor was rough and chafing. His breathing picked up in speed and his vision blurred around the edges.

“That wasn't too bad, Harry,” Riddle commented casually, as though completely unaware of Harry's current state. “In fact, your reflexes are nothing short of impressive. Your form, on the other hand, still requires some work. Did you notice how inefficient your movements were? They need to be smaller, more contained.”

“Precisely, Mr. Riddle,” Professor Merrythought chimed in. “But let's not be so strict on Mr. Evans, when he, too, outperformed the majority of this class. Well done. Both of you.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Riddle said with a polite smile before turning to Harry. “Don't dwell too much on your defeat. It has been years since any of my classmates could best me in a duel.”

It was astonishing how he could utter such bold statement without sounding arrogant, yet his tone and demeanor made him appear even more angelic than he had appeared before, and he leaned down and extended his hand, silently offering to help Harry onto his feet.

And then, Harry did something equally brave and idiotic: He slapped away Tom Riddle's hand.

The silence in the room that ensued couldn't have been more deafening, and Harry was too aware of the fact that every pair of eyes in the room was fastened on them.

“I see,” Riddle said coldly. “If that is what you'd like our interactions to be like, then suit yourself.”

For some reason, the calmness of his words and tone bothered Harry far more than any yelling would have had.  


***  


Tom's posture was stiff when he left the classroom after Professor Merrythought's lesson. While he had astutely commented on the performance of every pair, who had practiced the Disarming Charm after him and Evans, he had only directed half of his attention to the duels. Instead, his thoughts had been focused on his own duel, on how quickly Evans had raised his wand and begun to utter the spell. Muggle war or not, this boy wasn't the same as the rest of them, Tom concluded as he made his way to the Room of Requirement he'd only recently discovered, so he could reflect about what happened in private.

Tom had seen it in his eyes, in the way he had stiffened under his gaze, trying to inch away with every step Tom took: Fear. Pure, unadulterated fear. Evans wasn't just scared of him, he was mortified. Those expressive green eyes told stories of excruciating pain and death – pain he hadn't (yet) inflicted, death he hadn't (yet) dealt to anyone he cherished. It wasn't the gaze of one of the first years who were intimidated by his prefect badge or the rumors about his accomplishments and skills – no, his fear was genuine and bone-deep, and Tom's features twisted into something monstrous, something ugly, almost.

Oh, how he could get drunk on Evans's fear of him, how he could get drunk on his fear that was downright mortal, and yet, he couldn't afford to succumb to the sweet temptation of nourishing it, couldn't afford to inflict the same horrors he'd inflicted on the worthless Muggles at the orphanage he was still being forced to return to every summer.

Instead, he would once again rely on his steeled composure that had also allowed him to seal the Chamber so shortly after it had been opened and thus postpone his plans of purging the only place he'd ever considered his home of worthless Mudbloods – possibly for decades.

His need to _know_, however, couldn't be suppressed as easily. Especially when it was becoming more and more probable that Evans knew something about him that he wasn't supposed to be aware of. Had Dumbledore really shared his suspicions with a random transfer student?

In addition to that, there was also the matter of Evans's hatred and fear appearing far too personal to be born of a mere desire to rid the world of all that wasn't 'white'. There had to be a more profound reason for his behavior, and Tom was more determined than ever to get to the bottom of it. There was no way he would allow an old fool and a traumatized boy to foil his plans!

Coming up with a plan was a rather easy feat, for each of his inner circle members had been picked for their usefulness. Simply being rich was not enough; accumulating wealth was not one of Tom's short-term goals and should he desire so in the future, he could always charm one of the richer Slytherins into aiding him financially as he still kept his house members close enough to owe him favors.

Druella Rosier was especially skilled in espionage. She must have undergone a rather advanced training from her early childhood, Tom had concluded when she had proven her worth by giving him intel on the cautious old fool himself.

He could call on her expertise a second time.

“Druella,” he greeted her after heading her off on her way to the Common Room, and immediately, he was met with her full attention. “There is a favor I need to ask of you.”

When Druella returned from her assignment, she looked equally confused and excited. “You won't believe what I overheard,” she whispered quietly, then obliged as he motioned for her to follow him to an empty classroom.

“They couldn't be more certain that it was you who opened the Chamber of Secrets two months ago, and that it's you who's the heir of Slytherin. They are trying to expose you for what they think you've done. Isn't that outrageous?”

“Indeed. Those are very serious accusations. Did they say anything else? Something about Evans, perhaps?”

“They did, but it was... strange. Confusing. It can't possibly have been the truth.”

“Tell me about it regardless, Druella,” he said softly, giving her an encouraging smile that conveyed that it wouldn't be _her_ sanity that he'd be doubting.

“They were talking about the future. Not in a speculative way, no, but as though it had already happened. And then... they said that Evans is from the future, that he's a time-traveler who has fought your future self, who goes by the alias 'Lord Voldemort'. And that he's there to stop you.”

For a moment, Tom was rendered speechless as pieces he wouldn't have connected before fell into place. He was glad that his control over his features was extraordinary, for otherwise, they would have betrayed the sheer shock he felt upon hearing an alias only he himself should have known. After all, he had conceived it mere weeks before, and had never once used it so far.

“Thank you, Druella,” he said a touch stiffly before praising, “Once again, you have proven there is no better spy than you on Hogwart's grounds.”  
  
He was rather pleased to see a faint blush coloring her cheeks. Her attraction was a clear indicator that she would lower her guard around him more easily, and indeed, she made no motion to slap his hand away when he cupped her soft cheek. Instead, she closed her eyes, leaning into his touch.

“You have done exceptionally well today,” he murmured, raising his wand to her left temple, and his voice lowered to a whisper. “_Obliviate_.”  


***  


It didn't take long for Harry to pick up on the brewing of a storm – no, a tornado – and the tiny hairs at the back of his neck to stand on end. Everywhere he went, his schoolmates' murmuring awaited him, and it did not matter whether the students in questions were Slytherins (for even members of other houses adored the handsome Slytherin prefect) or whether they were in the same year as Harry and Riddle. Had his schoolmates regarded him with slight dislike before, said dislike had completely morphed into loathing and disgust by the end of the week.

For that reason, Harry wasn't surprised when he found himself backed into the corner of the empty Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom by a motley group of Slytherins from different years, half of whom he didn't yet know by name, the very moment Professor Merrythought and the other students had left.

“A lesson in respect,” one of Riddle's closest associates explained.

His blond hair, his silver eyes, and his sneer that appeared to etched on his features distinctively marked him as a Malfoy.

“Who wants to go first?”

“Let me do it,” another boy spoke up before rolling back his sleeves. “Been a while since I last got to taste the blood of a traitor.”

There was a gleam in his eyes that deeply concerned him, and the corners of mouth were pulled back enough to reveal two rows of immaculate sharp teeth. Something about him, too, was familiar.  
  
“Fine, fine. Go ahead, Lestrange. First, we bow,” Draco Malfoy's ancestor drawled, and before Harry could run or duck away, one of the other boys had already grabbed him by the back of his head and roughly forced him down, and Harry winced as his neck protested with an ugly crack.

Lestrange, on the other hand, merely inclined his head.

“On the count of three: One. Two. Three.”

Harry leaped to the side the very moment he saw Malfoy's lips move, the clamors of his heartbeat having drowned out his exact words. He very quickly noticed this was different from the duels he had engaged in in his own time, more advanced, and he could see it in Lestrange's deranged expression that he was out to main and torture rather than just degrade.

Before Harry could lift his own wand, Lestrange fired another curse at him. Harry leaped to the side again, yet this time, he only barely evaded it, for the biting smell of burnt hair entered his nostrils, and just a moment later, there was a loud crash as the spell barreled into one of the desks, splintering it into thousands of pieces.

“Careful, Lestrange,” Malfoy scolded. “We mustn't lose house points over this. And we mustn't attract attention either. Just this once, we can pretend Peeves is responsible for this, but it's not going to work another time.”

“Tch.”

“Watch your tone. You don't want Tom to scold you, do you now?”

“Got... got it! Anything but that! Hmph, you're lucky, Evans.”

“Lucky? You sure you're not talking about yourself? _Expelliarmus!_”

And before Lestrange could dodge or react properly, his wand flew out of his hand and he was thrown back, hitting one of the tables with a pained groan.

“That doesn't count,” he wheezed. “You were just lucky I was distracted! You could've never beaten me in a proper duel!”

“Sorry, but all I can hear is the whining of a beaten dog. Now, who else wants to 'have a go' at me?” Harry asked coolly, and his posture straightened now that his confidence had finally returned.

His opponents may be tougher than his schoolmates in his own time and they may have had a better teacher, but with Harry's real combat experience, there was no need for him to feel inferior to them.

Besides, who of them could claim to have defeated a real dark lord – not once, but four times? He let out an airy laugh.

“What's wrong? Scared to share that showoff's fate? Why not come at me together, then?”

Harry's very blood was on fire as he disarmed one of Riddle's sycophants after another, taking cover behind a tumbled desk whenever necessary and avoiding their hexes and curses that were growing sloppier and sloppier as their anger increased.

Soon, only Malfoy and two other boys were left standing – Malfoy, who hadn't lifted a finger despite Harry's attempts at provoking him, a girl with dark brown hair and a stiff expression, and another boy, who with his black hair and eyes so strongly resembled Sirius Harry's heart ached at the mere sight of him. They'd been watching him like a hawk, not launching an attack of their own, but dodging successfully every time Harry directed a Disarming Charm at them. He had to be careful around them, he concluded, for they appeared more capable than the rest, who without their wands appeared to him like a bunch of beetles struggling pathetically on their back, like a couple of fish that had been removed from the safety of their waters.

If there was one fatal flaw Harry shared with them, however, it was overconfidence – overconfidence that in his case stemmed from the misconception that others fought as honorably as he did. Too focused on Malfoy, the boy who had to be Sirius's relative, and the dark-haired girl, he didn't react in time when one the defeated boys sneaked up on him and tackled him to the ground, effectively knocking the air from his lungs. He should've remembered, Harry mentally berated himself, that snakes who had their tails stepped on were the most aggressive and vicious.

“Ha! Look at you now!” one of the boys taunted. “Should've known better than to act like a Gryffindor! Those morons seriously think brawn makes up for their nonexistent brains. Except... you don't have even that!”

With these words, he raised his fist, letting it speed towards Harry's nose, and Harry quickly closed his eyes, bracing himself for the impact. However, moments passed and the impact didn't come, and all of a sudden, all of the cheering stopped.

“Just _what_ do you think you are doing?” an icy voice cut through the silence, and the boy on top of him tensed all but immediately.

“To- Tom! I didn't know you-”  
  
“Knew what you were up to? Did you really believe I'd condone such conduct? Release Evans. _Now_, Dolohov.”

The boy immediately scrambled off of Harry, downright stumbling as he tried to regain his footing, and none of the others dared to say a single word.

“Abraxas, what is the meaning of this?” Tom Riddle addressed Malfoy. His tone was deadly calm and laced with authority and unspoken threats.

When Harry turned to look at Malfoy, he had to begrudgingly admire his mental fortitude, for the only sign that betrayed the nagging fear he had to be feeling was his pallor.

“He was clearly disrespecting you, so we decided to teach him a lesson.”

“And you assumed I couldn't handle his unruly hands and tongue on my own?”  
  
“Of... Of course not. We simply figured you had more important matters to attend to than a brat refusing to fit in.”

“You should be aware by now, Abraxas – and the rest of you – that I _despise_ people making assumptions about my wishes instead of asking me directly. Fifteen points will be deducted for your vulgar behavior – fifteen points for _each_ of you. It goes without saying that I expect you will compensate for the points lost to our house by earning twice the amount in the next weeks. Failure to do so will not be forgiven.”

One by one, the Slytherins lowered their heads, Abraxas included, and Harry held his breath at such casual display of power, at Riddle's immaculate leadership skills.

“Understood, Tom.”

“Very well. You may leave.”

Despite Riddle's phrasing, it sounded more like an order. It was something the Slytherins present appeared to have picked up on as well, for they all but fled the classroom.

When they were finally alone, Riddle slowly crossed the room, approaching Harry. Unlike after their duel, however, Harry's chest wasn't nearly as tight, and while his heart was still hammering inside his ribcage, it wasn't Riddle's fault this time, but the aftermath of almost having his nose broken by a physically stronger bloke.

“Are you alright, Evans?” Riddle asked and extended his hand, and his tone was much warmer now, to the point of being gentle, almost.

“Ye-Yeah,” Harry stammered, and without reflecting on the implications of his actions, took Riddle's hand, allowing him to pull him back onto his feet. “Err, thank you.”

“You ought to be more careful,” Riddle chided. “While I, too, find your behavior of ill taste, I do not wish for you to be injured or worse. I may have some influence on their actions, but as you must've noticed yourself, I can only protect you when I am present. It is unwise to provoke them further.”

“You may be right, Riddle” Harry sighed. “My dislike for you aside, this isn't getting us anywhere.”

“You're much blunter about this than I'm accustomed to from others. Truth be told, it's refreshing,” Riddle laughed, and Harry's eyes widened at how beautiful and melodious the sound was, how it couldn't have been more different from the cold high laughter he up until this point had associated with Voldemort.

Could it possibly be genuine this time – genuine after Harry had flat-out told him that he disliked him? He wondered what Tom Riddle's laughter would sound like, what his features would look like when he was told the opposite.

It was a thought he had to discard immediately, for no matter how genuine and charming he appeared to him in that moment, young Voldemort was still the monster, who mere weeks before had murdered Myrtle Warren in cold blood. He couldn't afford to see anything but black and white.

Regardless, there was one single thing Harry had no choice but admit to: If Voldemort's soul was dyed in the darkest shade of black, then Tom Riddle's wasn't yet completely so.


	3. Kapitel 3

Mildly put, Tom's encounter with the last living member of the Gaunt line was a bitter disappointment. The sight that greeted him when he approached the dilapidated Gaunt shack was gruesome: the dried-out, decayed remains of what must have once been a beautiful snake were nailed to the door. It was blasphemy to Salazar himself to harm a proud creature with such glorious ancient history, to go about it in such a crude, _Muggle-like_ way. The only inhabitant of the hut wasn't any more refined. Deformed in body and mind after generations of inbreeding, he couldn’t give Tom any answers about his heritage beyond how far the Gaunt line had fallen, how his pathetic, foolish mother had run away with a Muggle, and how Tom was the only one capable of restoring it to its former glory.

He would never forget the deranged gleam in Morfin's eyes that were barely visible under his greasy, ill-kept hair which, along with his beard covered his entire face; how how those eyes stared in opposite directions. Inbreeding was a vice common among pureblood families, and Tom swore to himself that he would never allow himself to degenerate into what Morfin had become. As much as he despised Muggles and anything related to them, he had no choice but to seek answers from the paternal side of his family.

Stupefying Morfin without second thought, Tom took Morfin’s wand and his family ring, finding himself a far more suitable wearer.

The Riddle House was the complete opposite of the squalid Gaunt shack. Perched on a hill overlooking the village and surrounded by the most luscious of grass, the manor stood tall and proud. It was a monument to the family's immense power and wealth, a constant reminder of the of the inferiority of the other denizens. If Tom were one to shy away from harsh truths, it would have been far too easy for him to pretend that it must have been a mere confusion that his father's blood was magical rather than his mother's, that his father's line was as extraordinary as the manor alone would have suggested, and he could've have reveled in the manor's magnificence and returned to the orphanage, none the wiser in regard to what inevitably awaited him inside his Muggle father's house. After all, it was impossible Mr. Riddle would be happy about his visit – not when he hadn't bothered to look for him for sixteen years.

While it would have been a child's play to fabricate himself a new past by combining his father's line's wealth and beauty with his mother's glorious ancestry, it was beneath the youngest of the only two remaining descendants of Salazar Slytherin himself to succumb to such delusions, and his hands tightened into white-knuckled fists as he climbed the hill, spotting a woman in a traditional maid attire in the distance – a woman who disappeared inside by the time he reached the grand iron gate that would have intimidated anyone but the house's inhabitants and him.

No, instead, he would fashion himself a new future, and one of the most vital steps was to confront the filthy Muggles who had been tainting it with their mere existence.

At least the manor itself could be useful, Tom concluded as he opened the gate, approached the massive ebony door, and knocked.

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence.

Then, a harsh voice barked, “Ann! Where is Ann again?!” There was a short pause. “Tom, get the door, will you!”

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Tom straightened his back, sucking in a sharp breath as the door opened, revealing a handsome man, who had to be in his mid-thirties based on his youthful appearance. The man would have been his split image, had it not been for his age and his disgruntled expression that was so unlike the pleasant mask Tom had trained himself in maintaining before others at any point in time.

The man seemed to share his reaction, for he, too, stood completely still, seemingly having lost the ability to form coherent sentences.

“It's a pleasure to meet you at last, _father_.”

The man's expression was haunted, and when he spoke at last, so was his tone. “After all these years, why _now_?” he said, more to himself than to Tom, fighting a visible internal battle he appeared to be losing.

“What... what do you want?”  
  
“The truth. Nothing more, nothing less.”

The man's features hardened. “I don't owe you anything, boy.”

“I'm aware of your reputation among the villagers. You may not care much about it much. However, unless you wish to leave this village, you remain reliant on their good will.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Can you truly afford them to know about poor Merope Gaunt, whom you so cruelly abandoned while she was carrying your child?”

The man paled.

“Now, won't you invite me in?”

There was something in Tom's gaze that made it impossible to refuse, and the man Tom knew was called Tom Riddle senior flinched before stepping aside like a puppet on strings. He did, however, maintain his hardened expression, and Tom had to acknowledge his efforts in not betraying how intimidated he truly felt.

“Follow me,” Tom Riddle senior instructed curtly, and led him to a lavish drawing room also furnished in ebony. It would have been a beautiful room, had the wine red color of the velvet cushions not reminded Tom so of his ancestor's rival, who had been so adamant about letting _Mudbloods_ study at Hogwarts and ultimately succeeded.

“Sit,” Tom Riddle senior said, pointing to one of the chairs.

“Thank you, _father_,” Tom replied, pretending that his father hadn't just spoken to him like one would speak to a dog and reveling in the way Tom Riddle senior winced, how guilt and disgust were vying on his features.

He took a seat.

“Look, boy. I have nothing against you personally, but with what Merope – your mother – did to me, surely, you must understand that I couldn't have possibly stayed with her.”

It was almost amusing, the way the man instantly assumed Tom had sought him out for emotional reasons, that he was like those other feeble-minded orphans who wished for nothing but their parents' embrace, and so, he barely kept himself from bursting into cold laughter, instead blinking at him innocently.

“May I meet the rest of my family?” he asked, flawlessly acting the part of the child Tom Riddle senior assumed him to be, and the more he thought about how he shared a name with a worthless Muggle, the more disgusted he grew with it.

“Fine. Wait a moment, I'll go and get your grandparents.”

Inwardly, Tom smiled. Despite how obvious it was that his father was only trying to be civil to maintain his self-perception of a good person and guiltless victim, that he was actually disgusted by him, the son he had with Merope Gaunt, this was turning out to be a far easier affair than Tom had suspected when he had seen his expression at the door.

Rising from his seat when his grandparents arrived, he forced back his own disgust and shook their hands.

“Grandfather. Grandmother. It's a pleasure to meet you.”

It was only when they had all sat down that he began to speak again. “Truth be told, I'm still struggling to decide whether to forgive you, for you see, father? My mother has long died. I never actually met her. I don't know what she could've done to you that has caused you to abandon your own wife and child and to never see whether they were doing well.”

Almost instantly, Tom Riddle senior paled, clutching at his chair's armrests with white-knuckled fists.

“She bewitched me,” he gritted out. “Forced me into a marriage I never wanted, when I was already engaged. How could I have not run the very moment the opportunity presented itself?”

“Even if it meant I'd be spending my entire childhood in a glum orphanage?” Tom asked calmly. “Even if it meant I'd spend my entire childhood believing I was unwanted?”

For a moment, deathly silence permeated the drawing room, and in the corner of his vision, Tom could see that his grandmother had covered her mouth in shock. Then, a most curious thing occurred, for suddenly, Tom Riddle senior's features twisted into an ugly sneer.

"It can't have been worse than staying with that witch, that harlot,“ he scoffed. “No, if anything, I'm glad you haven't been raised by her. If you really believe otherwise, I want you to leave this instant!”

And wasn't it peculiar how quickly his mask of a repentant man had shattered the very moment it had become clear to him that empty phrases were not enough to appease his abandoned son?

When Tom didn't say anything, he snapped. “Let me escort you to the door, then.”

However, when he tried to rise from his chair, it was as though invisible chains were holding him back and firmly in place, and he wasn't even allowed to struggle visibly. His exhaustion and despair could be seen on his face alone.

“You're the _same_ ,” he hissed. “Mother, father, quick! _Run!_”

But it was already too late. Regardless of how much they wanted to run, to struggle, Mary and Thomas Riddle's bodies were completely slack and immobilized. Thomas was the first of the three who recovered whereas Mary was sobbing quietly.

“Ungrateful brat! How _dare_ you use this... this _sorcery_ of yours on your elders?”

“Ungrateful? And what, pray tell, should I be grateful for? The fact that my _father_ never came looking for me? Then again...” Tom tapped his chin as though in thought. “This _was_ supposed to be a reunion. And I still have questions. Would you care to indulge my curiosity?”

“What do you want to know?” Tom Riddle senior asked quickly. He must have picked up on the danger radiating from him, though to what extent, Tom couldn't tell.

At first, Tom's questions were harmless and easy to respond to: There were questions about the Riddles' exact lineage, about how the family had acquired its immense wealth, questions about bribery and other less conventional uses of their money, and the three Riddles visibly relaxed, almost boasting about how they had tricked the former owners of the houses in the part of the village owned by the Riddles with too convenient loans and ultimately forced them to sell their properties. While Tom barely kept himself from laughing at the family's very _Muggle-esque_ small-time goal of owning the entirety of Little Hangleton (after all, his ambitions extended far beyond the ownership of a measly village), he had to admit that their methods were quite effective – effective enough for him to listen closely and memorize them for future use.

It was almost absurd how easily they were able to pretend that Tom Riddle senior wasn't responsible for the death of a young woman.

However, just when the other Riddles were so close to forgetting that they were in a hostage situation, that despite the lack of physical restraints, they couldn't rise from their seats even if they wanted to, Tom asked about his mother, and had it temporarily dissipated before, the tension was now back with its full oppressive force.

“Tell me, father,” he began pleasantly. “How did mother bewitch you? Was it a spell? A potion?”  
  
Tom Riddle senior paled visibly. “First... I think she offered me water first. Cecilia – my former fiancee – and I were riding past the Gaunt shack that day. It was summer and very hot. Our horses, too, were sluggish and thirsty. Perhaps we should've listened to them when they protested being saddled. I suddenly lost all interest in Cecilia after that, and ugly deformed Merope had morphed into the most wonderful creature in the blink of an eye.”

“Fascinating. Did she keep giving you the same kind of beverage? Do continue.”

“I believe it was the tea. My favorite herbal tea I'd drink every morning. Ever since I eloped with her, I always felt the strongest for her in the morning, right after breakfast.”

His features contorted as though in disdain and agony alike as he spoke of his fabricated feelings, yet Tom had no semblance of mercy for his birth father, for he kept pressing, leaning forward as he did so, “A love potion, then. Amortentia, perhaps. How did it feel when you suddenly came to your senses again? Was it a gradual process or a single, eye-opening instance?”

For a moment, it seemed as though Tom Riddle senior was about to protest and refuse, yet all it took was a single sharp glance on Tom's part to make him reconsider.

“I was devastated. In this one single moment, I realized that I had spent years with a woman that had always repulsed me. I was almost suffocated by disgust and regret.”

“Do elaborate.”

“I had... I had _touched_ her. Intimately. I had given up my family, my first love. All for that _whore_ who refused to know her place!”

“Oh dear, you should know we have long forgiven you,” Mary Riddle spoke for the first time.

“How touching. But did I allow you to speak?” Tom asked sharply, delighting in the way the frail old woman flinched. “Ah, no matter. Tell me, _father_, do you regret my existence? Do you regret having a biological son with a woman you hated? Don't think about lying now.”

For a moment, all that could be heard in the drawing room was the sound of the Riddles' accelerated breathing, and had Tom Riddle senior been pale before, his complexion now resembled that of a corpse. He had to be aware that no matter whether he lied or spoke the truth, the consequences would be dire.

He took a deep breath. “I do. I regret and despise everything related to that woman. The biological son I was forced to have with her is no exception.”

Tom, however, only smiled.

“As to be expected of my _Muggle_ father. Indeed, it doesn't surprise me that you fail to recognize the immeasurable _honor_ of siring the youngest of Salazar Slytherin's descendants. Merciful as I am, however, I shall reward your honesty.” Still smiling, he pointed Morfin's wand at Thomas Riddle.“_Avada Kedavra._”

Mary Riddle screamed when suddenly, the light faded from her husband's eyes, and almost instantly, tears were streaming down her face. Yet before she could violate Tom's ears with her unpleasant sobbing, he had already pointed Morfin's wand at her as well and murmured, _“Avada Kedavra.”_

Slowly, Tom Riddle senior rose from his chair, no longer bound by Tom's magical shackles. He approached his parents, touched the side of their necks, feeling for a pulse, and when he found none, he scanned their bodies for any traces of blood.

“What have you... what have you done?” His words, too, were spoken slowly, as though he still couldn't accept the unshakable truth of his parents' death, that Tom had killed them without physically harming them in any way – that was until the reason occurred to him at last, and he accused, “You... you _monster_! How can you call this a reward?!”

“I could have tortured them, had you been foolish enough to lie to me,” Tom said impassively. “Their corpses would have been mangled, unsightly. Not even you would have recognized them in your final moments.”

“But why? Why are you doing this? Is this your way of taking revenge?”

“Revenge? Not at all. I've simply come to prune my family tree. I may not be able to change the past, but at the very least, I can still erase it. And it won't do to have _filthy_ Muggles like you sullying my ancestry. After all, how am I to attain greatness and assume my rightful place as Salazar Slytherin's noble heir if the very people he despised the most are tainting my glorious future with every breath they take? You have said that you regret my being your biological son. But isn't it ironic how it must have not even occurred to you that my regrets exceed yours by far?”

When his father didn't say anything, he added, “I have an inkling such talk is wasted on you, however. Do you have any last words? No? In that case... _Avada Kedavra_.”

Tom knew what he was supposed to feel when he gazed as the lifeless bodies of the paternal side of his family, with their faces permanently frozen in mortal fear:

There was supposed to be sadness – sadness that there hadn't been a happy reunion, that his father hadn't embraced him upon sight and told him about how happy and relieved he was that his only son was alive and well; sadness that killing them had been his only choice if he wanted to truly act as Salazar Slytherin's descendant.

There was supposed to be relief after years of white-hot anger – relief that his pitiful mother had finally been avenged, that the boy Tom used to be had finally received justice, the boy who hadn't known anything about his magical heritage, who had wasted away in a dingy orphanage with measly food rations and no safe bunker when the bombs had been raining down on the city of London, knowing that he could die at any moment without his death making any kind of difference.

That he experienced neither emotion was only further proof he was an anomaly, that he was special.

Indeed, there was only the silent thrum of satisfaction at how well the Killing Curse had worked, at how clean and instant it had been as he ventured back to the Gaunt shack and modified Morfin's memories, so he would proudly declare himself the culprit of the murder and forget about every aspect of their encounter. With a bloodless murder that appeared like a natural death and an enthusiastic scapegoat, there was no need to dispose of the bodies.

The remaining days of Tom's summer holidays were dull and uneventful.

***

  
Harry's summer holidays in Tom Riddle's time were far more tolerable than his past summers with the Dursleys. For one thing, there were no mean-spirited relatives he had to return to – relatives who wouldn't let any opportunity slip to convey just how despised and how much of a burden he was in their eyes. For another, Dumbledore himself had given him permission to travel and explore the time he was now stranded in to blend in more convincingly.

It had come as a surprise to him that the wizarding society hadn't actually changed that much in the last 50 years. He had always thought that the wizards of his time were rather old-fashioned, and he had admired how they lived in their own, separate world, and cared so little about the developments in the Muggle world. Indeed, there was a timeless elegance to how they still used quills and parchment to write, how they clad themselves in tailored robes and pointed hats, how they relied on magically enchanted candles for lighting rather than light bulbs powered by electricity.

Even the stores in Diagon Alley were mostly the same, and only some of them were run by different owners and clerks.

The very moment he stepped through the doors of the Leaky Cauldron and into Muggle London, however, cold dread settled in his stomach.  
  
In every corner, there was the aftermath of destruction: There were collapsed houses and bridges, torn open streets, destroyed railroads, and everywhere he looked, there was rubble and debris. It was a pitiful sight, for not even important landmarks like churches, synagogues, and hotels were spared from such cruel fate, and it was as though the city itself had been stripped of its former glory.

As he walked the damaged streets, the biting smell of smokes and ashes entered his nostrils, and whenever he passed another person, their gaze was closed off and grim. In the corners of some streets, children were begging for food stamps and food. He regretted not having bothered to learn more about Muggle history during the summer holidays at least, for he knew there had been a massive war, yet he couldn't recall the exact cause of the destruction he now witnessed.

Asking one of the passersby appeared to be highly inappropriate.

Suddenly, he recalled a part of the memory another Tom Riddle had shown him. It was a part he had rarely dwelt upon from the moment the Tom Riddle from the diary had revealed his true colors and his connection to Voldemort, but the memory was now becoming clearer in his mind.  
That day, he had almost begged to not return to his Muggle orphanage over the summer, yet Headmaster Dippet had refused his request. It was an orphanage Dumbledore had told him was in London, and it was then that Harry concluded what Tom Riddle had actually begged to not be forced to return to. Were the attacks still on-going then? Had he lived through one of the bombings himself?

There was so much misery. Just how many of Voldemort's more extreme beliefs had been shaped by it? What kind of person would Harry have become, had he lived through something far worse than the Dursleys himself?

He quickly shook his head. Pitying his enemy and trying to relate to him never amounted to anything good. He would, however, ask Dumbledore more about this particular Muggle war and the true extent of what Tom Riddle must have experienced, so at the very least, he could fight this battle fairly and without aiming for weak points only a monster would be aiming for.

Regardless, it was on that day that an idea was born in the back of Harry's mind. It was small and forbidden, yet on-so insistent to be heard: What if Harry didn't fight Tom Riddle? What if he attempted to reform him instead?

The more he thought about it, the more tempting this new approach became.

There was no way Dumbledore or anyone less 'Gryffindor' would approve of such ideas, however, and so, Harry swore to himself to keep sitting on it until he himself had come to a conclusion as to how to approach the problem that was Tom Riddle being young Voldemort.

Now that he knew that the matter wasn't as simple as he had initially assumed, there was no going back and pretending it was; if his attempts at redeeming Tom Riddle didn't work, he would at least put him out of his misery as gently as he could.

When he returned to Hogwarts that summer, he couldn't bring himself to greet Tom Riddle with his usual glare.


	4. Kapitel 4

Harry had been basking in the sun after his arrival at the shore of the Black Lake in Tom Riddle's time when the events of the Ministry had come crashing down on him.

His eyes widened and he jumped to his feet and ran, almost bumping into a group of Hufflepuffs as he sped towards the Headmaster office. 

He hadn’t expected the sudden appearance of a strangely familar-looking old man right before the final corner and this time, had it not been for said man muttering a quick spell, he would’ve crashed right into him.

“What brings you here, my boy?”

“Where’s Headmaster Dumbledore?” Harry gasped out.

“Headmaster?” the man's voice was still kind, still patient even as he frowned. “I don’t recall having announced that Professor Dumbledore would succeed me. How did you know?”

It was then that Harry recognized him at last and rather quickly realized that he couldn’t tell him the truth before his mind remembered to question his presence.

“I am sorry, Sir. I must’ve taken some of the rumors a little too seriously. Do you know where Professor Dumbledore is, though? I’ve got a question about an assignment he gave us.”

“Have you perchance been talking about me?” a second voice asked and Harry wheeled around, gasping as he stood face to face with a younger version of Dumbledore he’d only seen a glimpse of in his second year. Next to him stood no one other than Tom Marvolo Riddle, and it was only for the fact that what he was experiencing could only be a dream or another memory that Harry didn’t attack him on sight.

“The boy-”

“Harry,” he quickly supplied.

“Of course. _Harry_ here was looking for you for some help with his Transfiguration essay.”

The two men exchanged a meaningful look until Dumbledore nodded. “Very well. You may accompany me to my office, Harry.”

For a moment, there was something knowing in his gaze, but then, his eyes hardened. “And Tom, I have nothing against you taking your request to Headmaster Dippet if you are displeased by my decision. I shall see you in class tomorrow.”

"Very well, Professor Dumbledore,“ Tom Riddle said stiffly, then turned to leave.

Once they were in Dumbledore’s office, Harry didn’t know what to say. It was becoming less and less likely what he was experiencing was a mere dream or vision and from Dumbledore and Dippet’s perspective, he had to appear as an intruder rather than a student or an ally. He had seen the glances they’d exchanged, after all.

“Headmaster Dippet said that you were seeking my help with an essay I never assigned to you. While this may be a common excuse to speak to a teacher in private, I don’t recall seeing you in any of my classes.” Despite his words and despite Harry’s intruder status, younger Dumbledore’s voice was surprisingly kind.

“You’re not mistaken, Sir,” Harry admitted, lowering his head in shame.

“Please look at me, Harry. Let me see your face.”

The seconds he was being examined passed excruciatingly slow and it felt as though Dumbledore’s intense blue eyes were burning right into him.

“Ah, yes. Very interesting,” Dumbledore ultimately concluded. “You’re a Potter, aren’t you? And you’re no student of this school, at least not at this time. Still, I can sense you’re not here to cause any harm. Am I mistaken?”

“No, you’re correct, Sir,” he admitted, seeing no point in lying.

If he had broken any rules, he couldn’t bring himself to care. Too much was at stake for him to start hesitating now.

“Professor Dumbledore, can I trust you?“ he suddenly blurted out. "Truth be told, there’s a memory I would like you to see.”  
  
“A memory…? Come here, my boy.”

When he rose from his chair and stepped forward, Dumbledore had already taken out his wand, which he then gently placed against Harry’s temple, extracting a silver string.

“It’s about Tom Riddle,” Harry stated, and something in Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled in immediate response. “And about something I need to understand, so I can decide what to do next. If I’m not completely wrong, I should be _dead_, Professor.”

“Very well. I’ll look into it as soon as possible. In the meantime, you should go to the Hospital Wing and let Madam Everbright examine you. I also believe you would benefit from a strengthening solution.”

This time, Dumbledore’s gaze softened even further when he looked at him and Harry felt himself relax almost instantly at the reassuring smile he was being given.

“Thank you, Sir. When would you like me to return?”

“I’ll be picking you up myself once I’m ready to discuss your memories, so be sure to not wander off.”

With a final nod in Dumbledore’s direction, he exited the office.

It was only when he had almost reached the Hospital Wing that he registered Dumbledore had never described the way to him. Just how much did he really know?

“I understand that your upcoming talk with Professor Dumbledore is important to you, so I won’t keep you here for examinations. But in exchange, I’d like you to drop by every evening for a week, so I can run a variety of tests on you.

Contrary to his expectations, Madam Everbright possessed none of Madam Pomfrey’s strictness. While she was exactly as competent and efficient, she appeared to make it a point to consider her patients’ wishes as well and devise a fair compromise, knowing they would only attempt to go against her instructions anyways if she were to force her will on them.

“Thank you, Madam Everbright,” Harry said sincerely.

“There is one important test that needs to be performed today, however, so if you’d please lie down and not move until I’m finished? It’ll take a while, so you may close your eyes and relax in the meantime. I won’t be requiring you to answer any questions.”

As Madam Everbright weaved her diagnosis spells, Harry’s mind began to finally adjust to the most recent events, replaying his most recent memories and allowing them to truly sink in.

Truth, however, was as bright and as merciless as a lightning bold, for the very moment it struck and rent the darkness, any of the latter’s comfort was bound to irreversibly dissipate. There was no escape from its vicious pull.

Sirius was dead. Harry hadn’t saved him despite his best efforts, despite his sacrifice. Yet he himself was still breathing.

'_Why?'_  
  
‘_Because you don’t belong here,’_ his mother’s cold voice supplied, and he flinched at her sharp tone, at his rejection by the one he’d been yearning for ever since he could remember.

Truths he’d been running from pierced him like the sharpest of arrows, and he furiously blinked away the tears beginning to form.

And then, right after Madam Everbright finished running her final test, another thought occurred to him. If this was no figment of his imagination, no Pensieve memory, then this was real. Everything was real – and it was then that hope and despair collided.

“I’m sorry, but I've got to see Professor Dumbledore after all. This can’t wait.”  
  
Before Madam Everbright could give a voice to her disapproval, however, Dumbledore himself entered the Hospital Wing, sparing Harry an exhausting argument with the matron by dismissing her with a slight nod.

“My boy, what you showed me is serious,” he began, returning the silver string he had extracted, commanding it to enter Harry’s head in an impressive display of non-verbal magic. “Very serious. Regardless, we mustn’t tell anyone until we have obtained concrete proof of Tom’s crimes. And we mustn’t let anyone know where you truly came from. If possible, I would have liked to discuss our future course of action right away, but alas, the headmaster wants to see you in his office immediately. I’m afraid you will be on your own until it is possible for us to converse again.”

As they made their way to the headmaster’s office, they were talking in hushed whispers – talking about how Harry would be interacting with Tom Riddle right away, how he had to do anything to keep him from growing suspicious before they could expose him, and how they would pretend that the Hat had sorted Harry into Slytherin, so he could keep a closer eye on young Voldemort.

By the time they had reached Dippet’s office, Harry was pale and unsteady, and the burden on his shoulders was close to crushing him.

His wand was held in a tight-knuckled fist as he waited for Tom Riddle to join them, and when the door opened, Dumbledore’s heavy hand on his shoulder alone was what kept him from pointing it at him, from attacking the one responsible for the death of his loved ones.

“I’m Harry. Harry Evans,” he introduced himself. His tone was stiff and he refused to return the smile Tom Riddle directed at him.

"Tom Riddle. It's a pleasure to meet you, Harry.“

Harry was sitting by the shore of the Black Lake, in the very same spot he'd arrived about two weeks prior to the end of the last school year, letting his thoughts wander. Now that the new school year had started, it was back to his task of stopping Tom Riddle, a task he shared with the Dumbledore of the past. However, the more he learned about Tom Riddle and the time he lived in, the less he wanted to stick to his original plan of exposing him as a monster or fighting him to the death the very moment he caught him in the act.  
  
“There's got to be another way!” he had told Dumbledore, who had only smiled at him sadly.

“If there were another way, I would have chosen it long ago.”

He had a feeling there was something Dumbledore wasn't telling him, yet at the same time, he also knew there was no point in asking. There was no way the Dumbledore of Tom Riddle's time was any less elusive than the Dumbledore of his own.

Looking back, Harry hadn't spared a minute trying to determine whether Tom Riddle was truly a monster or just severely misunderstood; he had simply automatically assumed it to be inevitable for him to become his parents' murderer in the future, he hadn't given him a single chance or let him speak for himself even once.

It was something he intended to rectify from now on, for technically, even Moaning Myrtle's death could have been but a heart wrenching accident. In the end, Harry had never heard the story from him directly and only made unfavorable assumptions about him.

“May I sit next to you?”  
  
It was the smooth, melodious voice of no one other than Tom Riddle himself that pulled him out of his thoughts, and without thinking, he responded, “Sure, go ahead.”

“What are you doing out here, all by yourself?” Tom Riddle asked, though his tone wasn't reproaching.

“Nothing in particular. Just thinking, I suppose. Relaxing. Enjoying the nice weather.”

At that, Tom Riddle let out an airy laugh, and again, Harry had to stop and marvel at the immense beauty of the sound.

“Not much of an indoor person, are you?” Tom Riddle laughed.

“Yeah. Normally, I'd be flying around on my Firebolt, but I obviously can't do that right now.”

“Because you don't have it over here?”

“Yeah,” he again confirmed, noticing far too late that he shouldn't have mentioned a racing broom that didn't yet exist in Tom Riddle's time. “Err, I mean, I totally forgot it at home,” he was quick to clarify, yet from the intensity of the prefect's gaze, he rather doubted that he hadn't seen through his lie.

“You're an enigma, Harry,” Tom Riddle murmured, and there was something unreadable in his gaze, something that disconcerted and pulled him in in equal parts. “On the one hand, you're astonishingly knowledgeable when you shouldn't be, yet the very next moment, you are so ignorant about the simplest matters that I cannot help but be endeared by it.”

“En-endeared?”  
  
“Yes. It's not common for me to happen upon a mental challenge of your caliber. What is your secret?”

“I... I don't have a secret.”

“You're a poor liar,” Tom Riddle chuckled. “However, it is only appropriate that I have to earn your trust first.”

“Glad you figured that part out,” Harry teased. “Don't know about your sycophants, but _normal_ people don't spill their secrets right away. Least of all to someone they don't even know.”

“Point taken, Harry. Would you like to ask me a question, then? Anything you'd like to know about me.”  
  
Harry's eyes widened, for he hadn't expected such immense luck, hadn't expected the opportunity to just ask Tom Riddle what he wanted to know the most to be presented to him on a silver platter. Regardless, was aware that he had to tread carefully. If he wanted an answer to all of his questions, he couldn't breach a too delicate topic right away.

However, when he was just about to open his mouth and pose his question, Tom Riddle, added, “However, it is only fair if I get to ask you something in return – something unrelated to your little 'secret', of course. Do we have an agreement?”  
  
“Yeah, that sounds fair. So... Rumors say you grew up in an orphanage. Provided those people weren't lying, what was it like?”

“I've never known anything else, so it is hard for me to judge. But compared to Hogwarts, the orphanage is... somber. Dull. The matrons are fairly strict, you see? One toe out of line, and they'd cut back on our already sparse rations.”  
  
“Did you ever get into... arguments? With other children, I mean.”  
  
“I did. Truth be told, while I wasn't one to initiate them, they don't exactly paint me in a positive light.”  
  
“How so?”  
  
“Well, you see, as the only one capable of using magic, I did make use of my... let's call it an 'advantage'.”

“You _hexed_ them?”

“What can I say? I was a child. There are those who argue children are inherently cruel. They have not yet developed a grasp on the pain they are capable of inflicting, only on the power such actions come with.”

Harry's blood froze. Once again, it felt like he was speaking to the monster he'd encountered in the Chamber of Secrets and in the graveyard. How could Tom Riddle speak about inflicting pain so casually?

“That's not true. Even if you didn't start those arguments, you could've chosen to not be mean when fighting back. And not all children are like that! Look. My childhood wasn't the greatest either, and I grew up with a bully for a cousin, and I never... ever lashed out on purpose. I just tried to run away from him and that was it.”

“Some would claim you were being a coward.”  
  
“Maybe. But that still doesn't change that I wasn't acting like a bully in return. I was above that.”  
  
For a moment, Tom Riddle appeared to ponder his words.

“You said that your childhood wasn't 'the greatest'. Would you mind elaborating on that? I believe it was my turn to ask you a question.”

Harry paled. He had never verbalized what he had gone through in the Dursleys' care, yet at the same time, he rather doubted that Tom Riddle would take him seriously unless he illustrated his claims with real examples, and so, he began to talk – talk about the cupboard in which the Dursleys had kept him until he was almost eleven, about the constant yelling, the threats of violence, about the way Dudley and his friends had hunted him down for fun, the way he had been locked up in his room for weeks once, having to share his meager meals with his owl Hedwig (he quickly lied that she had died one year before).  
  
With every word to leave his mouth, Tom Riddle's features darkened, and when he finished, he gazed at him with a locked jaw.

“There is no such thing as a proud victim,” he ultimately said, and an uncomfortable sensation settled in Harry's stomach, for there was a part of him colored in red and gold that couldn't help but agree.

Regardless, he protested, “Being peaceable isn't the same as being a victim. It's still a choice whether you just defend yourself or hurt someone in return.”  
  
“Indeed. Yet at the same time, that's not what you did, now is it? In my eyes, 'passively enduring' is a more fitting description of your behavior. Do you know the story of the Goose Girl, Harry?”

“No. What's it about?”  
  
“It's about a Princess, who, after losing the protective charm given to her by her mother on her way to her bridegroom, is being forced to switch places and horses and clothes with her evil waiting maid as well as to swear to not tell a word to anyone. As they arrive at the king's palace, the princess is ordered to tend to the geese with a boy called Conrad whereas the maid servant is treated as though she were of royal blood. Out of fear that the princess's beloved horse might reveal her secret, the maid servant orders for it to be slaughtered. As the princess is capable of commanding the wind, and therefore commands it to blow away Conrad's hat as he attempts to steal a few locks of her golden hair, Conrad refuses to continue working with her and complains to the king about the strange happenings surrounding her. Intrigued, the king observes her from a hiding place the next day, and in the evening asks her to tell her story. Due to her oath, however, the princess's lips are tightly sealed, and only after tricking her into telling her story to the iron stove while the king eavesdrops does he learn the truth, and having tricked the false princess into choosing her own punishment, the king marries the real princess.”

Tom Riddle paused, looking at him meaningfully.

“You see, Harry, I've always rather despised this particular tale, for isn't it unrealistic for the princess to not spend the rest of her life in misery after never once taking the hand extended to her? All because of a meaningless oath. Moreover, she is clearly capable of wielding magic, yet she never once utilizes it to defend herself or her beloved horse from her mean-spirited maid servant. No, in my eyes, this princess doesn't deserve such happy ending, even less so when there are thousands of those who struggle so desperately yet still fail to reach a happy ending of their own.”

Harry didn't know what to say. Had he be so sure in his stance before, he didn't even know how to disagree with Tom Riddle. His stance wasn't founded on malice or a hunger for power like Harry had initially assumed. And even though he had scolded him both, directly and indirectly, he had a feeling it had been done out of... concern? It was as though Tom Riddle genuinely didn't want him to act like the Princess he so despised – because he was worried?

“I'll... think about it,” Harry conceded. “But why do you know so much about fairy tales? Little Red Riding Hood may have been a common one, but this one? Never heard of it at all!”  
  
“I may have spent too much time in the library,” Tom Riddle explained conspiratorially, and there was a twinkle in his deep dark eyes that made Harry's heart skip a beat. “I wanted to learn more about what made me... _different_... from the other children at the orphanage. Hence I devoured any book and story about magic I happened upon. Fairy tales may be among the oldest tales about magic, and it has occurred to me that some of them may indeed have been true and described actual encounters between Muggles and wizards. At least, that has been my theory for a couple of years. Even before I read the about the historical usages of the Draught of Living Dead and the Wiggenweld Potion.”

“That's actually fascinating!” Harry exclaimed. “I never thought about fairy tales like that. Maybe that's why I always found them boring. But now...”  
  
“Now you're intrigued, I reckon?”

“Yeah! I wouldn't mind hearing more about them if you can make it that interesting! Can you tell me about those historical usages?”  
  
“Well, first of all, are you familiar with the aforementioned potions?”

“Not really. But I'm guessing that the Draught of Living Dead's some kind of sleeping potion?”

“Correct. One of the strongest known to wizardkind, in fact. A single drop is enough to induce an eternal deathlike slumber. The Wiggenweld Potion, on the other hand, is the only known antidote. Historians claim that long ago, a jealous witch used the former to eliminate a princess she considered her rival for a prince's affections, yet the prince applied the Wiggenweld Potion to his lips and kissed her awake.”

“The Sleeping Beauty fairy tale!”

“Indeed. You catch on quickly,” Tom Riddle praised Harry, giving him a smile that made his heart stutter yet again and a faint blush color his cheeks. “In any case, I ought to be going now. Prefect duties. But I thoroughly enjoyed our little exchange. We should have one again in the near future.”

“Same. And yeah, we really should,” Harry said, and after a moment, decided to add, “You know, Riddle? You're not nearly as much of an arse as I thought.”

“I'm insulted you ever thought of me in such a crude fashion,” Tom Riddle teased. “Didn't I tell you about wolves and whatnot?”

“You did and... you were right,” Harry admitted far too easily. “I should've formed my own opinion before judging you. Sorry, Riddle.”  
  
“You're forgiven. And call me Tom.”

“Thanks... Tom.”

When Tom offered his hand this time and Harry took it, a comfortable warmth settled in his stomach. Regardless of his goals of making Tom Riddle – _Tom_ – regret his actions and of reforming him, it almost felt as though he had made a new friend.

And indeed, as the two of them spent more time together, their interactions blossomed into a beautiful friendship.


	5. Kapitel 5

Not even the annoyingly close watch Dumbledore continued to keep on him and Harry's pathetic attempts at reforming him took away from the excitement Tom always experienced around Hallowe'en. It wasn't the feast that led to such feelings nor were it the festive decorations and the pure, youthful joy that seemed to permeate the castle, however.

“There are forms of magic that are especially potent today,” Tom explained to Harry after he had asked about the reason behind his mirthful expression. “Hence I'm looking forward to practicing them later tonight. You are welcome to join me, if you'd like to.”  
  
“You're not talking about dark magic... right?” Harry asked suspiciously, and Tom barely suppressed a scoff at his transparent attempt at figuring out his true intentions.

By now, it was obvious Harry was serious about befriending him, that he had grown fond of him, even, yet there was still a lingering suspicion at the mere possibility of Tom practicing the Dark Arts or harming another person. It was irritating, to say the least, that he still didn't fully trust him yet, but despite his growing impatience, Tom maintained a neutral expression.

“Of course not. Have you forgotten that I'm a prefect, Harry? It wouldn't do for me to break the very rules I've been tasked to enforce.”

For a moment, Harry just looked at him with his lips parted in what had to be bafflement, but then, his features hardened.

“Can we talk later? In private?”

“Very well. Once I've finished my prefect rounds, I shall meet you in the unused Arithmancy classroom on the third floor.”

“That works. See you later, then.”  
  
Giving Harry one of his more charming smiles, Tom headed in the opposite direction. He still had to meet with his Knights of Walpurgis, preferably teach them a particularly useful curse while he was at it.

***

When Tom entered the Room of Requirement that had assumed the form of a meeting room, all of his Knights were already present. One by one, they rose from their chairs and bowed.

“It is good to see you, my trusted Knights,” Tom said before sitting on the throne-like chair at the head of the table, crossing his long legs and letting his gaze sweep over Abraxas, Lestrange, Avery, Dolohov, and Mulciber. “Your reports.”

Originally, Tom had planned to introduce himself as Lord Voldemort, and discard his Muggle name once and for all, yet with Harry associating the name with his parents' murderer, just a single instance of his Knights calling him Lord Voldemort outside their meetings would be enough to arouse Harry's suspicions. For that reason Tom had to change the order of priorities – at least until Harry's trust was strong and unwavering enough for any slip-up on his Knights' part to not pose any danger to his plans.

As his Knights listed their observations of Harry and Dumbledore's movements, Tom made an effort to memorize each and every detail relevant to his future course of action.

“Forgive me for sounding rude,” Abraxas suddenly quipped, “but is there a reason we are being tasked to track the actions of a potential _Mudblood_?”

“His very presence at Hogwarts is the key to vanquishing the old fool,” Tom explained with a cold, enigmatic smile.

“Shouldn't we rough him up a little after all?” Dolohov suggested. It was rather typical of him to immediately think of violence as the solution.

Avery and Mulciber nodded in agreement, and Tom shot the three of them a withering glare, disgusted by how vulgar and unrefined they could be.

“Harry Evans is _my_ prey,” he declared, and something dangerous flashed in his dark eyes. “Whether he'll be harmed or not is _my_ prerogative. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Tom,” his Knights said in unison.  
  
“Keep an eye on his movements at all times. Continue your efforts to isolate him from the rest of the student body. Exert utmost care to prevent him from seeing through our plans. Do well, and you shall be rewarded.”

Everyone but Abraxas appeared to be pleased by Tom's promise, but ultimately, his disapproval of Tom spending so much time on someone he deemed 'unworthy' didn't amount to anything in the grand scheme of things. In the end, he, too, will fall in line, and Tom didn't care that fear might be a major factor.

Abraxas appeared to be aware of this outcome just the same, for when Tom announced that he would be teaching them a new dark spell, Abraxas's voice, too, was part of the excited murmur of his Knights.

“Today, I'll be teaching you the Cruciatus curse,” Tom said. “However, before I teach you the incantation and wand movement, you ought to be aware that without a strong intent to inflict excruciating pain and relish the sight of your victim writhing in agony, you will not be able to cast it successfully.”

As Tom elaborated on the history of the Cruciatus curse and on its exact effects on the human nervous system, he quickly noticed that Mulciber was growing paler and paler with every word he spoke. Tom inwardly sneered at how mentally feeble Mulciber was. He was only keeping Mulciber around due to his family’s connections and his talents as a spy, for who would accuse a young man of harboring any ill intentions when he was frightened of his own shadow?

Regardless, such weakness had to be discouraged, and so, Tom turned to him with a saccharine smile.

“Mulciber, won't you help me demonstrate?”

Mulciber, who was now pale as death, opened his mouth as though to object, yet no single word passed his lips; instead, he slowly approached Tom, knowing that to disobey would lead to even greater pain.

“_Crucio.”_

As Mulciber fell to the ground, tossing and screaming, the other Knights watched with morbid fascination, and Tom was pleased by his own flawless execution of the spell. His very blood was singing with delight as he imagined the old fool in Mulciber's position, and his eyes were positively gleaming.

Only when Mulciber's eyes started to roll back into his head and drool was leaking from his mouth did Tom lower his wand and extend his hand to Mulciber.

“Are you able to stand?” Tom asked, feigning concern. “I apologize. I shouldn't have hurt you to this extent.”  
  
“It- it's alright,” Mulciber stammered. “You were only teaching us.”

“Indeed. And it will greatly benefit you to be familiar with the pain you'll be capable of inflicting.”

Having instructed his Knights to practice the Cruciatus curse on one another, Tom was satisfied to observe that their first attempts at casting it were far from shabby, and that they made an effort to apply Tom's every correction and advice. Tom greatly enjoyed acting as their teacher and watching them realize their potential.

Two hours later, each of them was capable of inflicting a moderate amount of pain, and ordering them to each cast a harmless spell, so Priori Incantatem wouldn't reveal the Cruciatus curse if cast on their wands, Tom adjourned the meeting.

***

As Tom arrived in the unused Arithmancy classroom, Harry greeted him with a sullen expression.

“We're friends, right?” he began hesitantly, yet his bright green eyes were piercing and firm.

“What would make you doubt that?” Tom asked, letting a hint of indignation seep into his voice.

Harry took a deep breath. “I know you're lying to me. I've been giving you so many chances to tell me the truth, but you're always dodging my questions. Or changing the topic to avoid them.”

“I presume you have spoken to Dumbledore again,” Tom said bitterly, yet on the inside, his amusement couldn't have been greater.

Had it really taken Harry an entire season to notice?

“I haven't,” Harry said with a tired sigh. “I know that you opened the Chamber, not Hagrid.”  
  
“Those are serious accusations, coming from someone who hasn't been honest himself.”  
  
“You're right. I wasn't. Honest, I mean. You see that scar?” He pulled back the sleeve of his robes, exposing a scar that must have once been two puncture wounds – puncture wounds that should have cost him his life. “Your Basilisk is responsible for it. I almost died when I fought it.”

Almost forgetting to feign surprise, Tom traced the scar with tender fingers, fascinated. More than anything, the scar looked beautiful, and wasn't it delightful how, even as he tried to maintain an accusing expression, Harry shivered under his touch?  
  
“How is that possible?” Tom asked, needing to know more about Harry's exact interactions with his future self than the fact that they were bitter enemies.

“Your diary. It almost killed one of my friends to get a body. And when I confronted you – your memory, I mean – he sicked the Basilisk on me. I would've died, had it not been for Dumbledore's phoenix crying on the wound.”

“In that case, I'm glad you're still here, Harry. It would have been a terrible loss, had my faulty diary caused your death. Do you, perchance, know who brought it to Hogwarts? It was meant to be locked away forever.”

“Faulty? You mean... the Tom I met wasn't a representation of who you actually are?”

“I'm insulted if you genuinely believe that is the case.”

“I'm... err, sorry. I really should've known better by now. To answer your question, it was... I _think_ it was Malfoy's son.”

“His son? I apologize, but right now, I cannot seem to follow.” Tom's brows knit together in a pensive frown.

_'Just a little bit more,' _he thought, _'and Harry Evans will sing like a little songbird.'_

“Would you mind telling me from the beginning what I am not aware of? You almost speak as though you are from a different time. From the future.”  
  
Harry flinched, and it was clear that he, too, was aware there was no backtracking from this point.

Squaring his shoulders, he declared, “I am. And I'm here to stop you from doing something really stupid.”

“You'll have to elaborate on that.”

And then, he did, telling him everything from how Tom's future self – Lord Voldemort – had murdered his parents and attempted to murder him at the tender age of one, just to lose his corporeal form as his curse rebounded, how he was obsessed with immortality, even drinking a unicorn's blood and attempting to steal a Philosopher's stone. At that, Tom had to suppress a satisfied smile, for weren't the ideas Harry planted in his head decades in advance convenient?  
  
Harry spoke of his encounter with Tom Riddle from the diary, who, in his confidence he would emerge as the victor, had told him everything about his work as the Heir, about his second encounter with Tom's future self in Little Hangleton's graveyard that had cost him a dear friend, who died at the hands of Lord Voldemort's follower, how their duel had ended in a draw due to their wands possessing the same core.

When he narrated the events of his fifth year of Hogwarts that had led to his traveling back in time, Tom listened with rapt attention, wanting to know the exact circumstances that had placed this boy, whose only extraordinary skill was the ridiculous amount of luck he had, in yet another convenient position he wasn't deserving of.

There were theories, of course, but in order to confirm or disprove them, Tom needed more time to fully process what he had just learned.

Most importantly, he needed to calm his intense emotions, emotions that were crashing down on him like waves, ripping through him like a tornado, and his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists, with his nails digging into skin.

How could his future self been so foolish, relinquishing his sanity, his _mind_ so easily, when there was more than one method of attaining immortality? And how could he have fallen so low to be defeated by a mere infant, by the love of an insipid woman who placed no value in her own life?

“Tom, are you alright?”

It was Harry's voice and a tender hand on his fist that put a temporary halt to his racing thoughts.

“Yes, I am. I was just...” Tom trailed off, and for the first time, his mask and his true face were one and the same – if just for a brief moment. It wasn't common for him to be unable to verbalize his thoughts. “Forgive me. I will need some time to... process what I've heard.”

“Does that mean you believe me?”  
  
“How could I not? You've provided me with a sufficient amount of evidence and detail to convince me of the truth behind your words. Listen, Harry. I know this might not mean anything at all, coming from me, but... I'm sorry about your parents and the pain you have suffered at my future self's hands. If there is anything I can do to make you feel better I shall-”

“Change your ways,” Harry demanded, and Tom blinked, taken aback. But Harry hadn't finished yet. “Don't continue down the path that ends with you being a monster. I know you well enough by now to tell you can do better. So do it. I'm sure there are different ways of getting all powerful that don't require you to hurt anyone. I'll even help you find them.”

“You... you'd really do that for me?”  
  
“You bet I would! We're friends, right? And friends help each other like that.”

There was the slightest hint of guilt in Harry's gaze – guilt that must have stemmed from being friends with his parents' murderer – yet Tom didn't actually mind. In fact, he was amused by how determined Harry was to act like a morally pristine person even if it was hurting him. Or was he already too entangled in Tom's web to pull free?

Exerting some effort to appear overwhelmed by strong emotions of a different kind, Tom pulled Harry against his chest.

“Thank you,” he murmured, deliberately allowing his lips to graze Harry's unruly hair. “Thank you.”

When Harry hugged him back so tightly, Tom knew exactly how he needed to proceed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think now is a good time to thank everyone who has commented on this fic so far. Your kind words mean the world to me and really motivate me to keep working on this fanfic <3
> 
> I'd also like to thank Bon for giving me valuable writing tips.


	6. Kapitel 6

Night terrors were no uncommon occurrence for Harry James Potter – not when he had seen too much, heard too much, failed to protect too many times. There was Cedric, whose eyes – cold, lifeless, devoid of their former vibrancy and warmth – would still haunt his every dream, Sirius, who had disappeared with a smile that would still bring tears to his eyes, and now that he was stranded in a different time, he didn't even know if his friends hadn't already shared his fate, whether his sudden disappearance had bought them enough time to escape the Ministry alive and unharmed.

For that reason, when Harry returned to the Ministry in his dreams, Voldemort and his followers were already there. They had formed a circle in the Death Chamber and the Death Eaters listened to their leader’s words with rapt attention. Harry couldn’t quite make out what exactly his nemesis was saying, for the very moment he stepped closer, an intense jolt of pain rendered him unable to see anything but white. He fell to his knees and screamed.

“Harry Potter,” Voldemort addressed him, and from his tone, it was obvious he was delighting in his pain. “I see you have finally decided to rejoin our little gathering. However, it is unfortunate that you arrived so late. You see,” He stepped aside, gesturing to the ground before him, “your dear friends' consciousness has already left this world without you being there to save them. They must have felt very betrayed and…_ lonely _.”

Voldemort was telling the truth, for right in front of his feet were the mangled bodies of Ron, Hermione, Neville, and Luna, their faces contorted in pain and fear, and it was as though an arrow had been driven into Harry’s heart.

And so, it was of no surprise that he once again woke to the sound of his own frantic yelling and pleading, that he was trembling from his shoulders to his toes. A choked sob escaped his lips as a particularly detailed image of Ron and Hermione being tortured flashed before his eyes.

(“They'll never be the same,” he still heard the healer say. “They've been subjected to the Cruciatus Curse for a very long time. It'll be a miracle if they still recognize you.”)

With every memory of his most recent dream returning, Harry's shaking intensified, and from emerald eyes, tears fell freely in a continuous stream.

“Hush,” a pair of lips so close to touching his ear whispered.

“Tom, I...”

“Can you hold it back until we make it to my bed?”

Instead of giving him a verbal response, Harry merely nodded, allowing for a firm, but gentle arm to guide him first into a sitting, then into a standing position. Heeding his friend's words, he bit down on his lip, stifling the sounds threatening to escape. He let Tom guide him across the room and towards the bed protected by an abundance of silencing charms.

“You should have come right away,” Tom scolded lightly and Harry flinched. “Surely, you must be aware by now that it's imprudent to let them see your weaknesses.”

“You're right... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause you any trouble.”

“You're forgiven. It's not your fault that you're suffering from such vile nightmares. Regardless, I may need to teach you a handful of more advanced silencing spells, so they don't notice your, ah, _ reactions _. They may be your Housemates, yes, but you mustn't forget that they're still snakes.”

Harry knew that Tom was right. The only reason the other Slytherins had made no open move to ridicule or otherwise antagonize him because of his perceived 'weakness' was Tom's firm hold on them, for they both feared and admired him. It was idiotic to not account for the possibility of one of them targeting Harry in an act of challenging Tom's authority.

All but expecting to be scolded further (which in his eyes, would be perfectly justified), he couldn't prevent a surprised gasp from slipping past his lips when he was instead pulled against Tom's firm chest, and he immediately clung to him, drinking in the comfort of his embrace provided like a man deprived of life-giving water for days. His sobs were muffled by the soft fabric of Tom's shirt.

“You were dreaming about _ him _ again.” It wasn't a question, but a statement. “You were watching helplessly as your friends were being harmed or worse. But rest assured, whatever it is that you saw, I won't let it turn into reality.”

At times, it was scary how accurate Tom's deductions were, how he appeared to gaze into his very soul, yet he'd never been unkind about it, and Harry found himself being bothered by it much less than he should have been, when mere weeks before, he had been fighting tooth and nail to expose Tom for the monster that he had thought he was. After all, it felt too good to be understood, to have someone even more familiar with the shadows haunting him than he himself was; someone who would never shy away from them; someone more capable of facing them than Harry would ever be.

It didn't take more than the certainty of Tom's tone and the firmness of his embrace for his sobs to die down, yet his heart was still clamoring in his chest, the breaths he took shallow and irregular, and there were still images flashing before his mind piercing his very soul_. _His body’s shaking intensified as his mind conjured yet another version of his friends' torture and death.

“The human mind is a fragile thing, Harry,” Tom began again, “So delicate and easy to shatter. I don't fault you for your inability to reassemble the pieces with logic alone. It's only natural after how much you've been through. And after such a long time of being the only one capable of carrying such an immense burden. Hence, if you'd like me to make an attempt at distracting you...”

“_Please _.”

“Shall I tell you a story, then? There's this retelling of the Sleeping Beauty tale I happened upon rather recently. It's a touch sappy, but I'd be surprised if you didn't find it as intriguing as I did.”

“Tell me that story.”

“Very well.”

As Tom began to weave his tale, Harry couldn't help but marvel at his ability to quote entire stories from memory. It was different from the time another Tom had utilized this skill to ridicule a dying Ginny, a lot less disconcerting. He was utterly enamored with the rise and fall of Tom's melodious voice, with the emphases so deliberate and perfectly placed, and soon, all of his worries vanished into oblivion, for there were only Tom's words and the image he was painting on the canvas of Harry's mind, filling it with colors so gentle and vibrant where there had once been nothing but flashes of bright green.

“Once upon a time there lived a princess, who was the kindest and fairest of the entire land, and when she sang, all deer and hares in her vicinity would arrive to listen and the birds would accompany her with their joyous twitter. The young princess was beloved by everyone, nobles and peasants alike, and no lunar cycle passed without a foreign prince asking her hand in marriage.

“But her stepmother, mean and spiteful and repulsive in appearance, had fallen for the very suitor she had considered promising her future to, and unable to bear the thought of losing to the princess endlessly more beautiful and beloved than she’d ever be, she devised a vicious plan.

“On the day of the prince’s arrival, the stepmother, disguised as a kindly old woman, pulled him aside, holding out a necklace of silver and tears of emerald as a gift for the princess. ‘It’s her favorite gem; it will make her adore you before you can utter a single word,’ she whispered conspiratorially and the prince gratefully accepted her offering. ‘You shall not be among the poor lads she rejected.’

“And the prince, overjoyed at the prospect of marrying the princess without having to even court her, immediately gifted her the necklace, his smile radiant as the sun as she placed it around her neck without the slightest hesitation. But what he did not know was that the necklaced was cursed, cursed to pierce the princess’s skin the very moment the emeralds were grazing it and so, she fell, lifeless before her body hit the ground.

“‘What have I done?’ the prince cried, crystalline tears trailing down his cheeks and dripping onto hers. “If only I had chosen her over the love I wanted to receive from her. Please, if there’s any fairy or witch, take my life and give it to her instead!”

“When the evil stepmother found them, their lips were locked in a tender kiss, the prince dead and the princess sleeping peacefully.

“Enraged, she grabbed another cursed emerald, pricking the princess’s left pinky, and declared, ‘You shall sleep forever, then.’ As she stormed out of the castle, she made a dense wood grow around the castle, populating it with wild beasts and adorning the plants with poisonous thorns.

“Already given a true love’s kiss, the princess wouldn’t die from her curse, but she wouldn’t wake unless bestowed with another kiss, and the evil stepmother had made sure that no one could leave or enter the castle without dying a gruesome death. And so, a hundred years passed and of the princes and lads that had attempted to save the princess, none returned alive.

“At least, that’s what people said.

“Upon sensing the arrival of another young man – the first in more than a decade – the Princess commanded the thorns to grow rampant and transferred her mind to the body of a venomous snake. It wouldn’t be long until he shared the fate of those who had come before him.”

“But Tom,” Harry interrupted him, “Why would she do that? That man's trying to save her, right?”

“You see, Harry,” Tom began patiently, “no one had asked the Princess whether she even wanted to be woken. And no one had bothered to find out whether it had truly been a curse that had made her fall into such a deep slumber. Do you not believe it to be cruel, sending her back to a stepmother who despised and continuously attempted on her life?”

“Yeah, but...It just feels _ wrong _. A hero who isn't the hero. A Princess crueler than the villain...”

“And yet, it is _ her _ well-being that is being disregarded by those around her. If you keep looking at the world and see nothing but black and white, you'll never understand the Princess's thoughts. Nor will you understand why in her case and in the case of those in a similar position, protecting oneself might be the only right choice.”

“Protecting... herself?”

“Exactly. And now, hush. I have yet to finish my story.”

“...Sorry. For interrupting you. I'll just... shut up now,” Harry said a little too stiffly and immediately let out a startled yelp when, instead of scolding him further, Tom – his friend, he reminded himself, trying and failing to keep the fuzzy feelings at bay – cupped his cheek and flashed him a breathtaking smile.

“You're positively endearing. Now, where was I...” Tom’s voice trailed off before he added, “You'll have to forgive me for telling the story in my own words from this point. Now that I've already revealed a handful of plot points, I wouldn't want to _ bore _ you with repetitiveness.”

Harry, who could think about nothing but the word 'endearing' being directed at him again, was too flustered to respond with anything but a nod. A faint blush colored his cheeks.

“As you may have expected, the prince easily avoided the venomous vines and tendrils and instead of attempting to slay the snakes with brute force, his wisdom inspired him to charm them instead, to speak to them in their own tongue until the Princess herself granted him passage willingly. She was curious about what made him different from the others.

“Once he finally happened upon her sleeping form after a felt eternity of searching, he fell to his knees and whispered, 'Forgive me, Princess, for having even thought of waking you.' 

“It was because her features were so content and peaceful, it would've been a sin to strip her of the dreams that after years of being tormented by her evil stepmother had granted her true happiness. You must know that the prince was aware of her hardships, that he had been prudent enough to look past her legend and for the person that she was. And now that he had seen her, he could no longer blame her for slaying the saviors who weren't truly saviors, but instead trying to condemn her to a life of disappointments and pain.

“When he leaned down to kiss her, it wasn't her mouth that his lips touched with _extraordinary_ _tenderness_, but her forehead.

“'Sweet dreams, dear Princess,' he said and left her to her dreams, forever in bliss.”

For a moment, there was nothing but a comfortable silence until Tom finally asked, “...Do you understand now?

“I... I think I do. If I'd been the prince, I wouldn't have woken her either. It would've been... cruel.”

“Who said you were going to be the _ prince _?” Tom mused and from his enigmatic smile, it was obvious to Harry that he wouldn't get a straight answer, should he ask him to elaborate.

“But you are right.” Tom praised Harry, stroking his hair, and the touch elicited a content sigh from him.

“Are you feeling better now.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Tom. Though... can I- can I please-”

“Sleep next to me?” Tom smoothly finished his sentence for him, seemingly paying no attention to the awkwardness of his request. “Of course.”

“Thanks.”

As Tom guided him down onto the mattress and covered him with a blanket, it was far too easy to just let himself fall as he waited for sleep to take him, knowing that this time, he was beyond the reach of any further nightmares, for Tom's mere presence appeared to chase them away.

Harry wanted to ask why Tom wasn't lying down as well, think of a way of doing so without having to reveal his disappointment, but suddenly, Tom's face was hovering so close to his own, and he dared to not even take a single breath as words were utterly failing him.

His heart stuttered in his chest and he sighed wistfully when a pair of soft lips grazed his forehead in a tender caress. Warmth spread from his core throughout the rest of his body, making him feel protected and safe.

“Sweet dreams, Harry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter, this fic has finally revealed its true colors as well as the major plot point I've been setting up in each of the previous chapters :P
> 
> I sincerely hope you (continue to) enjoy Dornröschenschlaf<3
> 
> As always, I greatly appreciate each and every comment, kudos, and bookmark I've received <3


	7. Kapitel 7

When Harry woke up the next morning, he was feeling relaxed and content; no further nightmare had haunted his mind in Tom's presence. Warmth blossomed in Harry's chest at the thought, for never before had he been comforted in such a tender fashion, never before had someone murmured soothing words in his ears when he had cracked under the pressure of the role assigned to him, and Harry's cheeks flushed when he remembered the kiss Tom had bestowed on him, and his forehead tingled in the very spot Tom had kissed him. It was the exact opposite of the vicious pain he experienced whenever he was in Voldemort's proximity, and it only further cemented Harry's conviction that the Tom Marvolo Riddle he knew and Lord Voldemort couldn't have been more different from one another, that his decision to tell Tom about his future self had been the correct one.

Tom's side of the bed was empty, yet Harry wasn't hurt by it. He knew that Tom was an early riser, that he was most likely studying in the library or practicing his magic before breakfast, and he couldn't suppress a chuckle. Tom's thirst for knowledge exceeded that of Hermione, which was a feat Harry wouldn't have deemed possible before he met him.

However, unlike Hermione, Tom wasn't merely focused on 'collecting' knowledge and Harry had soon learned that Tom liked to question the content of each and every book he read, that he didn't accept anything as the truth unless it had been confirmed by multiple sources and withstood his ruthless examinations. 

“Only a fool reads a book without questioning, without trying to determine the author's motivations,” Tom had told him once, and Harry had been instantly reminded of how shocked Hermione had been to learn that her favorite book – Hogwarts: A History – was riddled with omissions of the less favorable facts about the school.

Regardless, he protested, “Not every author is out to lie and deceive their readers! Wanting to believe in the good of people's _not_ idiotic!”

“I was not implying that these authors' intentions were malicious. However, most people are prone to letting their emotions reign over logic. Convincing others of what they _want_ to be true becomes more important to them than educating them about the truth. And at times, they become unable to tell the difference between these two approaches.”

“You could be right,” Harry conceded, finding it difficult to argue against Tom's point. “But Hermione's still the smartest witch I know. And she's anything but naïve!”

“Ah, of course. I'm sure she is a bright individual,” Tom said, and Harry was positive he had imagined the dismissiveness he had sensed for a moment.

No, there definitely was no way Tom thought ill of Harry's friends, not when he was so considerate and kind. It truly was a shame how unlikely it was for the three of them to ever meet especially with how difficult it would be to convince them that, unlike his diary counterpart and Voldemort, Tom was far from evil.

Getting out of bed at last, Harry changed into his Slytherin robes and made his way to the Great Hall and to the breakfast table.

By now, it was a given that Harry would be sitting to Tom's left, and indeed, no one had dared to take a seat on _Harry's_ chair that day either.

“Morning, Tom,” he greeted his close friend.

Turning around, Tom flashed him a radiant smile – a smile that made Harry's heart stutter in his chest – before responding, “Good morning, Harry. Did you sleep well?”  
  
“Y-yeah,” Harry stammered before lowering his voice. “Thanks, Tom.”

“You're most welcome,” Tom murmured in Harry's ear, and for the second time that day, Harry's cheeks took on a soft pink tinge.

Some of the other Slytherins present snickered, yet a single pronounced glance Tom directed at them was enough for them to fall silent immediately, and once again, Harry couldn't help but admire how much control Tom held over the other members of his House.

Thinking about the reason they must have been snickering, however, he was suddenly aware of how wrong they all were, of how there was no way Tom would ever regard him as anything more than a friend, and something heavy settled in his stomach.

Why the thought was so disheartening, he didn't know, for wasn't he supposed to be grateful for their close friendship that had made being stranded in another time so much less painful, that may have helped him change the course of history itself? He had always been nothing but grateful for Ron and Hermione's friendship, so why did he seem to desire more from Tom?

“What are you thinking about, Harry?”

It was Tom's melodious voice that pulled him out of his thoughts, and Harry quickly lied, “Nothing important.”

“I see,” Tom said, and there was something knowing in his gaze – something that made Harry wish for the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

However, the worst hadn't yet come to pass, for right after Divination, the final class in the afternoon and the only class of Harry's Tom didn't attend as well, Harry was intercepted by Avery on his way back to the Common Room, and despite knowing that Tom's sycophants would no longer lay a single finger on him, he instinctively reached for his wand.

“What d'you want?” he asked, and his suspiciousness was apparent in his tone.

“I've seen the way you look at Tom,” Avery stated quietly. “Everyone has. You fancy him, don't you?”

Harry's heart stopped, for it had been a while since he had last been put on the spot like that. But was it really true that he fancied Tom? Was he really enough of an idiot to want something that might put their entire friendship at risk? It was even worse that the handsome prefect would never feel the same for him.  
  
“Well?” Avery urged.

“That's none of your business,” Harry said, though his tone wasn't nearly as firm and resolute as he wanted it to be.

“You wouldn't be the first bloke to fancy him,” Avery continued, completely ignoring Harry's words. “He just has that effect on people, doesn't he?”  
  
“What's your point?”

“Your chances aren't half-bad,” Avery stated bluntly. “Disastrous first interactions aside, he's been treating you differently from the rest of us. Don't think we _don't_ know that you slept in his bed last night. Do you really believe that's a privilege anyone else has had before?”

Harry's cheeks flushed as he considered Avery's words, and it was true that he couldn't imagine Tom sharing his bed with any of his sycophants. It was a thought he didn't know what to feel about. Was it really alright for him to be hopeful?  
  
“No. Not really.”

“Be careful, Evans,” Avery warned him. “Not everyone is going to take as kindly to your special position as me.”

“They can all come at me, then, if they're so eager to be defeated again” Harry declared, and his bright green eyes shone with fierce determination. “I'll teach them another lesson.”  
  
“You know, sometimes, I wonder just why you weren't sorted into Gryffindor,” Avery mused. “Any true Slytherin would have known that there aren't only direct ways of harming a person. If I were you, I'd be on the lookout for more than just ambushes.”

“Thanks for the warning, Avery. You know, you're not nearly as nasty as I thought at the beginning.”  
  
“I'll be taking that as a compliment,” Avery said smoothly, and Harry smiled.  
  
“Go ahead, then.”

Truly, he would have never expected that there were decent Slytherins other than Tom, and he wondered how many of them he simply hadn't encountered in his own time or refused to take notice of.

Regardless, Harry decided to remain cautious around the Slytherins who confirmed his bias against them, and indeed, someone spiked his pumpkin juice with a potion that would have caused his entire face to come out in a particularly nasty rash on the same day, and only Tom's brilliance in the subject had prevented such a disastrous outcome, for Tom had noticed that the color of Harry's pumpkin juice was slightly darker than it was supposed to be.

Whereas Harry wouldn't have cared enough to look for the culprit – at least not beyond showing the spiked drink to the Potion Master – Tom insisted on taking the matter in his own hands.

“I cannot let this slide, Harry,” Tom had said. “And neither should you.”  
  
Tom had exited the Great Hall then, leaving Harry to wonder just how he intended to find the culprit all on his own.

***

Druella Rosier had been reading an advanced book combining the fields of Herbology and Potions for the sake of creating potent poisons, which Tom had devoured himself on a single night, when he found her in the Slytherin Common Room on her own, confirming him in his suspicions that there was more to the young woman, who liked to pretend that there was no difference between her and the Pureblood heiresses who had been instilled the belief that there was no need for them to focus on their academical education and that all they should care about was to embody the ideal of a demure fiancee and wife, who was perfectly content leaving the act of thinking to the men in their lives. 

However, it was exactly how successfully Druella had blended in with her female peers despite her sharp mind that made her such a capable follower and spy, and the fact that Tom alone appeared to have recognized her intellect and skills had made her even more malleable in his hands, for deep down, she was craving to be validated as the person beneath her mask, hence when Tom approached her, she couldn't even conceal her eagerness to be assigned a task requiring her true talents, and her features lit up with a smile Tom concluded had to be genuine.

“Good afternoon, Druella,” Tom greeted her with a smile of his own, then gestured to her book. “_De herbae veneficae_... a most fascinating read, isn't it?”

“Indeed,” Druella agreed. “I have found myself unable to put it down from the moment I had begun reading it.”

Tom willed his smile to falter – as though he were feeling guilty for disturbing her – hence Druella was quick to add, “But if there is anything I can do for you, please don't hesitate to let me know.”

“Truth be told, there is indeed a matter requiring your expertise.”

After less than an hour, Druella returned to him with the name of the culprit, and Tom would have appointed her a Knight of Walpurgis there and then, had it not been for the fact that there were Knights he did not deem capable of protecting her secret – a secret he benefited from as much as Druella herself.

“Thank you, Druella,” he murmured close to her ear, causing a becoming blush to make its way onto her fair features. “Truly, I do not know what I would have done without you.”

The identity of the fool who had attempted to poison Harry was Rowan Selket, a boy in his fifth year, whose gaze – wistful and filled with longing – Tom had felt on him on more than one occasion. He had never paid any special attention to the boy, who was mousy and meek and virtually useless to him, for while he was invisible in a way similar to Druella, Tom had rather quickly concluded that his mind was dull and devoid of the ambitiousness any true Slytherin ought to possess.

Having written a note asking the foolish boy to meet him in an empty classroom past curfew, Tom wasn't surprised by Selket's blush and his expression that was almost bashful, for he had most likely assumed that Tom had called him for a forbidden tryst.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

The very moment that he closed the door behind him, Tom's pleasant smile vanished from his handsome features, and his tone was downright frigid. “Evening, Selket. I assume you are not quite familiar with Hogwarts's rules, for I don't quite recall they have ever stated that it was permitted to make an attempt at poisoning another student.”

Immediately, Selket paled, and he stammered, “I- I wasn't trying to poison Evans. I would've only given him an ugly rash, making him less... less attractive in your eyes.”

“And you assumed that by attempting to harm _what is mine_, I would look more favorably upon you.”

“I- I didn't mean to-”  
  
“'Didn't meant to' _what_?” Tom demanded, taking an abrupt step closer to Selket and backing him up against the wall without touching him or decreasing the distance between them.

“Listen to yourself,” he sneered. “So imprudent. So _pathetic_. Are you truly delusional enough to believe that _anything_ about you would catch my attention? I would have _pitied_ you, had you ever mustered up the courage to simply confess to me. But after having been insolent enough to go after Harry and careless enough to be found out, surely, you must have been prepared to face the consequences of your transgressions.”

“Tom... Riddle... please,” Rowan Selket begged, already on the verge of tears from Tom's words alone.

“_Crucio.”_

Only the Silencing Wards Tom had erected around the room prevented Hogwarts's teachers from picking up on the deafening screams of Selket, who was writhing in pain on the hard ground until a thin trail of blood trickled from his nostril and his body went slack. 

On the same evening, Tom and Harry, who had been doing their homework in the Common Room, were approached by Selket, who apologized to Harry profusely, not daring to look either of them in the eyes and downright fleeing the very moment Harry told him that he was forgiven. 

Of course, his sweet and naive Harry didn't question the tremor in Selket's voice nor the fact that he had barely been able to prevent his knees from giving in, and merely regarded Tom with admiration, and when Tom leaned in to murmur the correct spelling of a Latin term that Harry had misspelled in his essay in his delightfully sensitive ear, Harry seemed to have long forgotten about Selket, for it was Tom alone who dominated his every thought.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's returned from the dead? :P It is me, Menda, and I'm here with a new chapter that marks the beginning of _Dornröschenschlaf's_ second arc <3 I very much hope you enjoyed it :)
> 
> (Long story short, I had to deal with more severe concentration problems than I'm used to, hence I was unable to really write. Now that my medication has been adjusted, however, I am hoping to update this story more frequently again <3)
> 
> Of course, I'd like to thank the wonderful and amazing Lena for once again doing a stellar job as my beta as I literally wouldn't know what I'd do without her <3
> 
> On a similar note, you should definitely all check out her writing here: https://fountain-of-forgetfulness.com/
> 
> Lena has been posting a super intriguing Morrowind fanfiction on this site and her original writing is to die for just the same!!

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I'd like to give a big thanks to Ascended_Sleepers for betaing my Big Bang fanfiction and for always being there for me when I needed writing advice. Seriously, you are the best <3 
> 
> In addition to that, I'd like to thank my dear friend Winter for giving me super useful suggestions and for always encouraging me when I needed it the most <3 
> 
> I'd also like to thank the workshop group on Little Red's Writing Hood, who has helped me out with this work on two separate occasions. Lots of love to this wonderful Discord server and its even lovelier members <3
> 
> Last but not least, I'd like to thank my RP partners (themothertruckingdarklord and parselheir on tumblr) for inspiring me in general.
> 
> My tumblr accounts are mendacia-dulcia and mendacium-dulce, the former being my personal and the latter being my writing blog; I always love making new fandom friends, so feel free to shoot me a message <3


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